QuA+lity

HOMECOMING

by Laila Lalami (Morocco)

For five years Aziz had imagined the scene of his homecoming. In his carefully rehearsed fantasies, he would come home on a sunny day, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, his hair gelled back and his moustache trimmed. His new car would be stacked to the roof with gifts for everyone in the family. When he rang the doorbell, his wife and his ageing parents would greet him with smiles on their faces. He would take his wife into his arms, lift her, and they would twirl, like in the movies. Within days of his arrival he would move them from the decrepit apartment in a poor neighbourhood of Casablanca to one of those modern buildings that sprang up daily in the city.

But as the date of his return to Morocco approached, Aziz found that he had to alter the details of his daydreams. He had imagined he’d arrive in a late-model car, but now he thought that a car trip would be impractical and besides, he didn’t think his beat-up Volkswagen could sustain the 800 kilometres from Madrid to Casablanca. So he had booked himself on a Royal Air Maroc flight instead. To make matters worse, the image of his family greeting him at the door of their apartment grew dimmer. His father had died during his absence, and now his mother and his wife lived alone. He also had trouble visualizing his wife’s face as easily as he had in the beginning. He remembered her to be slender and distinctly shorter than he, but he couldn’t quite recall the colour of her eyes, whether they were green-brown or grey-brown.

These uncertainties made for a stressful few days, culminating on the day of his departure. He arrived at Barajas Airport three hours before his flight. He made sure again and again that his passport and work visa were in order so that he could re-enter Spain after his trip. Once he got on the plane, he couldn’t eat the light meal they served during the hour-long flight. He filled out his customs declaration declaration as soon as it was handed to him, repeatedly checking to see that he had entered the correct information from his passport.

When finally the plane flew over the port of Casablanca, he looked out of the window and saw the beaches, the factories, the streets jammed with cars, the minaret of the King Hassan Mosque, but he couldn’t locate the medina or the dome in the Arab League Park. He held on to the arms of his seat as the plane began its descent.

It was Aziz’s first time inside the Mohammed V Airport in Casablanca. He had left the country on an inflatable boat out of Tangier, in pitch dark, with two dozen other immigrants. He had been caught right on the beach in Arzila by the Spanish Guardia Civil and sent back to Morocco on the ferry two days later. He had spent a few months in Tangier, hustling, and tried again to cross, on a balmy summer night. This time the current had helped him and he had landed on a quiet beach near Tarifa.

A few days later he was in Catalonia, ready for the farm job he had been promised by one of the smugglers he’d paid. It was tough work, but at least it was work, and he tried to keep his mind focused on the pay packet at the end. What he remembered most about that first summer was the hunched figures of his fellow workers and the smell of muscle ointment inside the van that they took to work every morning. When the long-awaited pay packet turned out to be a pittance, he was too afraid to complain. He thought of going north and crossing into France but was afraid to tempt fate again. After all, he had already been luckier than most. The trip in the inflatable Zodiac had been an ordeal he wanted to forget, and he didn’t think sneaking across the border in the back of a vegetable truck would be any easier. So he travelled south instead. He arrived in Madrid in November, with only a vague address for a friend who worked in a restaurant and might be able to help him out.

The Casablanca airport was impressive. The marble floors, the automatic doors, the duty-free shops – everything looked modern. But the queue for passport control was long. After waiting an hour for his turn, Aziz stood at the window where the officer, a man whose purple lips attested to heavy smoking, cradled his chin, an unfriendly look on his face.

‘Passeport,’ he said.

Aziz slid the green booklet bearing the imprint of the pentacle under the glass window. The officer typed something on his keyboard, then leafed through Aziz’s passport.

‘Where do you work?’ the officer asked.

Aziz was taken aback. ‘In an office,’ he said. That was a lie, but he didn’t understand what his job had to do with checking his passport. He feared that telling the truth, that he washed dishes, would make the officer look down on him.

‘Do you have your national ID card?’

‘No.’ Aziz stiffened. He stood with his back straight, trying to control the surge of anxiety that was overtaking him. He didn’t want to appear nervous. The officer sighed audibly and started typing away again at his computer. He stamped the passport and threw it across the counter. ‘Next time, have your ID with you.’

Aziz walked to the luggage area and collected his bags. The customs officer asked him to open his suitcase, prodding the contents with his baton. He saw a pack of ten undershirts, still in their plastic wrapping. ‘Are you planning on reselling any of these?’ he asked.

Aziz knew the type. They harassed immigrants in the hope that they would get a banknote slipped to them. He didn’t want to play that game. His voice was cool and disaffected when he replied no. The officer looked behind Aziz at the queue, then closed the suitcase and marked it with a tick in white chalk. Aziz was free to go.

He rode the escalator down to the train station. The shuttle train had been nicknamed Aouita, after the Olympic gold medallist, because it was fast and always on time. Aziz smiled now at the thought of it, at how his countrymen were always quick to come up with funny names for everything. He took a seat on the train, which departed right on time. Outside, the road was littered with black plastic bags. Trees, their leaves dry and yellow, swayed in the wind. In the distance an old truck lay on its side, abandoned, its wheels in the air. Soon they entered the metro area, with its factories and apartment buildings.

He got off the train at Casablanca-Port, the stop nearest to his old neighbourhood. As he stepped into the station concourse, he found himself in the middle of a crowd, of boys selling cigarettes, men offering to polish shoes, beggars asking for change. He held his suitcase and hand luggage firmly. His throat was dry. He started walking in earnest – the apartment was a short distance from the station and there was no need to take a cab. The cart that sold boiled chickpeas in paper cones was still there up the street, and the same old man in a blue lab coat and wool hat still worked at the newspaper stand. A group of teenage girls on their way to school crossed the street in Aziz’s direction. Several of them had scarves on their heads, and despite himself Aziz stared at them until they had passed him.

When he arrived at the marketplace entrance, the vendors were still opening their shops, preparing their displays of fruits, vegetables and spices. A butcher was busy hanging skinned lambs and cows’ feet. Aziz felt nauseous at the sight of the meat. Carts creaked behind him as the drivers rushed to make their deliveries. Shouts of ‘Balak!’ warned him to stand aside, and twice he had to flatten himself against a wall to avoid being run over. He felt beads of sweat collecting on his forehead, and the unbearable weight of his sweater on his chest. He wished he could take it off, but both his hands were busy and he was too nervous to stop before getting home.

Aziz turned onto a narrow alley and continued walking until finally he found himself at the entrance of the building, a rambling, turn-of-the-century riad that had been converted into small apartments. Aziz crossed the inner courtyard and knocked on the door of the apartment. The only response he received was from his own stomach, which growled as it tied a knot. He looked over towards the window and saw that the shutters were open. He knocked again. This time, he heard footsteps rushing and there she was, his wife.

‘Ala salamtek!’ Zohra cried.

‘Llah i-selmek,’ he replied. She put her arms around him and they hugged. Their embrace was loose at first but grew tighter. Aziz’s mother shuffled slowly to the door, and she wrapped one arm round him, the other one holding her cane. She started crying. Aziz let go of both women, grabbed his suitcase and hand luggage, and stepped inside.

The apartment was darker than he remembered. The paint on the walls was flaking. One of the panes on the French windows was missing, and in its place was a piece of cardboard, but the divan covers were a shiny blue, and there was a new table in the centre of the room.

Aziz’s mother broke into a long ululation, her tongue wagging from side to side in her toothless mouth. She wanted all the neighbours to know of the good news. Zohra joined her, her voice at a higher pitch. Aziz closed the door behind him, and now they all stood in the living room, laughing and crying and talking.

Zohra looked thin and small, and she had defined lines on her forehead. Her hair was tied in a ponytail. Her eyes – he saw now that they were grey-brown – were lined with kohl. Her lips had an orange tint to them. She must have rubbed her mouth with roots of swak to make her teeth whiter.

‘Are you hungry?’ Zohra asked.

‘No,’ Aziz said, his hand on his stomach. ‘I couldn’t eat.’

‘At least let me make you some tea.’ Aziz knew he couldn’t turn it down, and besides, he longed to taste mint tea again. Zohra disappeared into the kitchen and he sat next to his mother. Her eyes scrutinized him.

‘You look thinner,’ his mother said. She herself seemed to have shrunk, and her shoulders stooped. Of course, he told himself, it’s been a few years; it’s normal. ‘And your skin is lighter,’ she added. Aziz didn’t know what to say to this, so he just kept smiling as he held her wrinkled hand in his.

Zohra came back with the tea tray. Aziz sat up. She was still very beautiful, he thought. When she gave him his glass of hot tea, he noticed that her hands seemed to have aged a lot faster than the rest of her, the skin rough and dry. Her knuckles were swollen and red. He felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps the money he had sent hadn’t been enough and she’d had to work harder than he thought to make ends meet. But it hadn’t been easy for him either.

He took a sip. ‘Let me show you what I brought for you,’ he said. He put down his glass and went to open the suitcase. He took out the fabric he bought his mother, the dresses for Zohra, the creams, the perfumes. The two women oohed and aahed over everything.

When he took out the portable sewing machine, Zohra looked at it with surprise. ‘I bought one last year,’ she said. She pointed to the old Singer that lay in a corner of the room.

‘This one is electric,’ he said proudly. ‘I’ll install it for you. You’ll see how much faster it is.’

Within an hour of his arrival a stream of visitors poured in to see Aziz. The tiny apartment was filled with people, and Zohra kept shuttling between the kitchen and the living room to refill the teapot and the plate of halwa.

‘Tell us,’ someone said, ‘what’s Spain like?’

‘Who cooks for you?’ asked another.

‘Do you have a car?’ asked a third.

Aziz talked about Madrid and how it could get cold in the winter, the rain licking your windows for days on end. He also talked about the Plaza Neptuno, near the Prado, where he liked to wander on summer days, watching the tourists, the vendors and the pigeons. He spoke of his job at the restaurant and how his manager liked him enough to move him from dishwashing to clearing tables. He described the apartment in Lavapies, where he lived with two other immigrants. They took turns cooking.

‘Did you make friends?’ someone asked.

‘Some,’ Aziz said. He mentioned his neighbour, who had always been kind to him, and his boss at the restaurant. But he didn’t talk about the time when he was in El Corte Inglés shopping for a jacket and the guard followed him around as if he were a criminal. He didn’t describe how, at the grocer’s, cashiers greeted customers with hellos and thank yous, but their eyes always gazed past him as though he were invisible, nor did he mention the constant identity checks that the police had performed these last few years.

Zohra’s mother, who lived down the street, had also dropped by, and she sat quietly through all the conversations. Finally she asked, ‘Why would you work there while your wife is here?’ She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. Aziz looked at Zohra. He wanted to talk to her about this, but they hadn’t had any time to themselves yet. He cleared his throat and refilled his mother-in-law’s glass.

‘Where is Lahcen?’ Aziz asked. ‘I thought he’d be here by now.’ He and Lahcen had exchanged letters in the beginning, but as time went by, they had lost touch. Aziz had received the last postcard from Lahcen two years earlier.

‘He’s moved to Marrakesh,’ Zohra said. ‘Everyone has mobile phones now, so he couldn’t sell phone cards any more.’

After the guests left, Aziz’s mother went to spend the night with the neighbours next door so that he and Zohra could have the apartment to themselves. Aziz stepped into the bedroom to change into a T-shirt and jogging bottoms. He sat at the edge of the bed and looked around. There was a faded picture of him tucked in a corner of the mirror on the old armoire and a framed one, of the two of them on their wedding day, hanging on the wall by the door. Under him, the mattress felt hard. He bobbed on it and the springs responded with a loud creaking.

Zohra busied herself for a while in the kitchen before finally turning off the lights and coming into the bedroom. She had been talkative and excited during the day, but now she seemed quiet, shy, even. Aziz sat back against the pillow and crossed his legs.

‘You must be tired,’ Zohra said, her eyes shifting.

‘I’m not sleepy yet,’ Aziz said. Zohra looked ahead of her, at the streetlights outside.

‘I have something to tell you,’ he said. He swallowed hard. Zohra looked at him intently. ‘I have some savings, but …’ He swallowed again. ‘I don’t think it’s enough.’

Zohra sat on the edge of the bed. ‘How much?’ she asked, a look of apprehension on her face.

‘Fifty thousand dirhams,’ he said. ‘It could have been more, but the first year was tough.’

Zohra reached over and took his hand in hers. ‘I know it was.’

‘There was the rent. And the lawyer’s fees to get the papers. And the money I had to send every month.’

‘Fifty thousand is a lot. You could use that for a start. Maybe start a business?’

Aziz shook his head. ‘It’s not enough.’

‘Why not?’

‘That would barely cover the lease for a year. Then there’s inventory and maintenance.’ Aziz shook his head. ‘Not to mention all the papers.’ He thought of the queues he had seen in government offices, people waiting to bribe an official to push their paperwork through.

‘So what are we going to do?’ Zohra said.

‘Go back to Spain,’ Aziz said, looking down. His wife had sacrificed so much already. Her parents had only agreed to let her marry him because they thought that at the age of twenty-four it was better for her to be married to someone who was jobless than to stay single. She had stood by and helped him save for the trip, waited for him, but at least now she wouldn’t have to wait any longer. ‘And I’ve started your paperwork, so you will be able to join me before long, inshallah.’

Zohra let go of his hand. She nodded. Then she stood up and turned off the light. He heard her take off her housedress and get on the bed, where she lay on her side. When he got closer, she stayed still, her knees to her chest. He moved back to his side of the bed and tried to sleep.

The next day Aziz was startled out of his slumber at five by the sound of the muezzins all over the city. He lifted his head off the pillow for a few seconds before letting it rest again and, eyes closed, listened to them. In Spain he missed the calls for prayers, which punctuated everything here. He smiled and fell back to sleep. Later the sound of cars and trucks whizzing by the industrial street a few blocks away from the apartment did not wake him, but the smell of the rghaif Zohra was making was too much to ignore and he finally got out of bed around nine.

When he came out, his mother was sitting on the divan in the living room, looking regal and aloof. He kissed the back of her hand, and in response she said, ‘May God be pleased with you.’ Zohra entered the living room and, seeing him there, went back to the kitchen to get the tray of food. She placed the communal plate in the middle of the table, pushing it a little closer to Aziz. She poured and passed the tea round. Then she brought a glass of water and a pill for Aziz’s mother.

‘What’s the pill for?’ Aziz asked.

‘Blood pressure,’ Zohra said. She sat down and started eating.

‘I didn’t know.’ He struggled to think of something else to say. ‘The rghaif are delicious.’

‘To your health,’ she replied.

He chewed in earnest, relieved that, with his mouth full, he couldn’t say anything. Fortunately a knock on the door provided some distraction. A little girl came rushing in without waiting to be let in. She looked about six years old. Her hair was in bunches, and her blue trousers were ripped at the knees.

‘Who is she?’ Aziz asked his mother.

‘Meriem, the neighbours’ kid. She’s always here.’ The child jumped into Zohra’s arms and Zohra laughed and planted loud pecks on her cheeks. ‘Do you want something to eat?’ Zohra asked. She sat the child on her lap and handed her a rolled rghifa, dipped in melted butter and honey. She smoothed her hair and tightened her bunches.

Later Zohra took Meriem to the kitchen, and when they emerged, the little girl was holding a wooden tray loaded with fresh dough on her head. She was taking it to the neighbourhood public oven. ‘May God be pleased with you,’ Zohra said as Meriem left. Zohra sat down again. ‘Isn’t she sweet?’ she said. Aziz nodded.

They finished breakfast. Zohra cleared the table and then announced that they had been invited to have lunch at her sister Samira’s house, down in Zenata. She went to the bedroom to get her jellaba and slid it over her housedress. She stood facing him now. ‘If I go to Spain with you, who will take care of your mother?’ she asked.

‘My sisters,’ Aziz said, waving his hand. ‘She can go live with them. You’ve done more than enough.’ Aziz was the youngest in his family, and the responsibility for his mother would normally have gone to her daughters or to her firstborn, and he was neither.

Zohra nodded. Then she drew her breath and added, ‘But I don’t speak Spanish.’

‘You’ll learn. Just like I did.’

‘Couldn’t you just stay here?’

Aziz shook his head. His lips felt dry and he wet them with his tongue. ‘We can talk about it later,’ he said. They took the bus to Samira’s house. Aziz sat by a window and looked at the streets passing by. New buildings had sprung up everywhere, squat apartment houses with tiny windows that had been outlined with Mediterranean tiles, in a futile attempt to render them more appealing. Internet cafés were now interspersed with tailor shops and hairdressers. He was startled away from the window when a bus coming in the other direction passed by, only inches away. Car horns blared from everywhere, and motorcyclists barely slowed down at intersections.

They got off the bus and started walking. The smell of burnt rubber made Aziz’s nose feel stuffy. ‘Do you smell that?’ he asked. Zohra shook her head. ‘It’s a strong odour,’ he said. She shrugged.

They passed a school and Aziz saw children playing a game of football on the grounds. It reminded him of his own childhood and he smiled.

They arrived a little after the midday prayer. Samira answered the door and Aziz was shocked to see her hair fully covered in one of those Islamic scarves that had seemed to multiply since he left. Collecting himself, he leaned over to give her a hug, but she stepped back from him and said, ‘Welcome, welcome.’

Aziz straightened up. Unfazed, Zohra stepped in and took off her jellaba. They sat down on the foam-stuffed divan, and Mounir, Samira’s husband, appeared. Aziz kept looking at Samira. Finally he asked, ‘When did you put on the hijab?’

‘Two years ago,’ she said, ‘by the grace of God.’

‘Why?’ Aziz asked.

‘Because that is the right way,’ Zohra answered. Why was Zohra defending her? Aziz sat back. ‘So that means you are on the wrong path?’ he asked her. Zohra shot him a look that said, Stop it. He pretended not to notice.

‘Well?’ Samira tilted her head. ‘May God put us all on the righteous path. Amen.’ She got up and started setting the table for lunch.

‘How long will you be staying?’ Mounir asked.

‘Only ten days,’ Aziz said.

‘He’s going back again for a while,’ Zohra said.

Samira brought the plate of couscous. ‘You should go with him,’ she said. ‘Husbands and wives belong together.’

Aziz watched for Zohra’s reaction. Perhaps her own sister could convince her better than he could.

‘I don’t know if that’s the life for me,’ Zohra said. But her tone was weak, and Aziz could see that her sister had planted a seed that he could cultivate until he convinced her.

That night Zohra came into the bedroom and turned off the light. But this time when Aziz reached for her, she didn’t turn away. He took her into his arms. It felt strange to be making love to her again. He had forgotten how small she was, and while he was on top of her, he worried that his weight might be too much, so he supported himself on his forearms. Being with her brought to mind the women he had slept with while he was gone. He was ashamed to have cheated, but, he reasoned, he had been lonely and he was only human. He told himself that he had never intended to cheat on her, that the women he had slept with had meant nothing to him, just as, he was sure, he’d meant nothing to them. Now he wondered what his wife would look like in a sexy bustier, straddling him, her arms up in the air, moaning her pleasure out loud. He couldn’t imagine Zohra doing it, but maybe she would, if he asked her. He came out of her and put his arm under her so he could scoop her up and place her on top of him, but she raised her head and gripped his arms in panic. Her eyes questioned him. He entered her again and resumed their lovemaking.

When it was over and he lay in the dark, he wondered what had been on her mind. He feared that it was only one thing. He had seen how she had looked at the neighbours’ child and he wondered if he should have stayed away from her tonight. He told himself that he’d have to use a condom next time. He didn’t want to risk having children yet, not like this, not when they had to wait for her paperwork, not until he could support a family. He lay on the bed, unable to sleep.

A few days later Aziz went to visit his father’s grave. Zohra led the way, walking swiftly among the rows of white headstones gleaming in the morning light. She stopped abruptly in front of one. Aziz’s father’s name, Abderrahman Ammor, was carved on it, followed by the prayer of the dead: O serene soul! Return to your Lord, joyful and pleasing in His sight. Join My followers and enter My paradise. The date of his death followed: 27 Ramadan 1420.

Aziz recalled one day in 2000 when a letter had arrived announcing that his father had passed away. Zohra didn’t have a telephone, so he had called the grocer and asked that someone get her. He had called back fifteen minutes later, but there was oddly little to say. By then his father has already been dead a month and the event carried no urgency. He felt a great deal of shame at not being able to cry. In Madrid life went on, and his grief, having no anchor, seemed never to materialize. Now he found it hard to conjure it on demand.

‘I wish I had been there in his last days,’ Aziz said.

‘The entire derb came to his wake,’ Zohra said.

Aziz got down on his knees and took out a brush from Zohra’s bag. He started clearing the dead leaves from the headstone. ‘I wish I had been there,’ he said again.

Zohra kneeled next to him. ‘I don’t want the same to happen to us. We should be together.’

Aziz took a deep breath. He had waited for her to make up her mind, and now that she seemed to agree with him, he didn’t feel the sense of joy he expected. When they left the cemetery, he told Zohra that he wanted to go for a walk before dinner, so while she took the bus home, he headed downtown, to the Avenue des Forces Armées Royales. At the Café Saâda he peeked inside and saw the patrons standing at the bar or sitting in groups, huddled over their beers and gin and tonics. On the terrace, customers sat indolently over their mint tea. He chose a seat outside, in the sun, and ordered an espresso. He looked around. Something struck him as odd, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. It wasn’t until the waiter came back with his coffee that he realized there were no women at all.

Some of the men played chess; others smoked; many read the newspaper. Those who sat closest to the stream of pedestrians passed the time by watching people, whistling every now and then if they saw a pretty girl. Aziz wondered why the place was so packed in the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday, but the serious expression on everyone’s face provided an answer to his question: they were unemployed. Aziz finished his coffee and left a generous tip before walking down the avenue. The fancy shops displayed leather goods, china, silk cushions, souvenirs, expensive wares that he knew most people in his neighbourhood could never afford.

By the start of his second week in Casablanca, Aziz had seen every sibling, cousin, neighbour and friend. He had heard about the weddings, births and deaths. He had been appropriately shocked at how much his nieces and nephews had grown. But he found little else to do. The cinemas showed films he’d already seen. He’d have liked to go to a nightclub, but he couldn’t imagine Zohra going with him or even letting him go. Most of the programmes on TV bored him, and unlike all their neighbours, Zohra refused to have a satellite dish. ‘No need to bring filth into the house; there’s enough of it on the street,’ was how she put it. So he sat at home, on the divan, and waited for time to pass.

On the eve of his departure Aziz took his suitcase out of the armoire and began packing. Zohra sat on the bed, watching him. When he finished, he took out a stack of notes from the inside pocket of his suitcase. He put the money in her hand. ‘This is all I have.’

Zohra didn’t move. She kept looking at him.

‘I’ll save more,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll come back.’

There was a sceptical look in Zohra’s eyes and it made Aziz feel uncomfortable. What did she expect of him? He couldn’t give up an opportunity to work just so he could be at home with her. Did she have any idea what he’d gone through to make it in Spain? He couldn’t give it all up now. He had to go back.

The grandfather clock chimed the hour.

‘When are you sending me the papers?’ she asked, at last.

‘I don’t know,’ he replied.

Zohra started crying. Aziz tapped her shoulder, in an awkward attempt at consolation. He couldn’t imagine her with him in Madrid. She was used to the neighbours’ kid pushing the door open and coming in. She was used to the outdoor market, where she could haggle over everything. She was used to having her relatives drop by without notice. He couldn’t think of her alone in an apartment, with no one to talk to, while he was at work. And he, too, had his own habits now. He closed his suitcase and lifted it off the bed. It felt lighter than when he had arrived.